Syb. Then here's my hand. Pray Pallas 'tis no fool's!
Bia. Yours too, my Phania! In one breath I seal
Judge and defender mine! [Kissing their hands]
Now with my ship
Will prayers go tendant, mending every sail
That storm may batter. Typhon, whirl the sea
To insurrection,—send her meekest wave
To crinkle round the sun, and hiss from Heaven
The mariner's port-star,—I shall be safe
While I have implorators fair as ye
To melt the gods!
Syb. Ah, Biades, thou must
Be loved or die. Is 't heart or vanity,
That's so insatiate?
Pha. Nay, you have forgiven!
Syb. But will not coo yet. Is that Creon comes?
[Looking to upper right]
You'll meet him, Phania?
Pha. He knows his way.
Bia. Has news!
I'll pick the pigeon. [Goes up right]
Pha. O, my Sybaris,
Thanks for this generous peace! But who could long
Be harsh to Biades?
Syb. Such steel's not in me.
I but stood off, a shadow of resolve,
To hear him woo me back. His coldest words
Are ta'en from music, but when warm in suit,
Then music sues to him.
Pha. Woo you? Didst say
Woo you? Couldst think—couldst dream—couldst let blind sense
So flatter?